


Skin Deep

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Demonic Possession, F/M, Praise Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean puts his whole body into the swing of the Blade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent. Assume Abaddon was the one who collected Dean for that howl at the moon at the end of s9.

Dean puts his whole body into the swing of the Blade. His arm wheels up over his head, hangs there at the height of extension for a fraction of a second before slamming smoothly downward, the strength of his body driving his movement as much as the Blade weighting his hand. Altogether, a perfect arc of violence that ends in a meaty crunch, the thick resistance of one of Crowley's hapless minions split straight through and gouting blood.

He's beautiful. Leaning idly against the gritty cinderblock wall of the warehouse Crowley chose to lay his pathetic attempt at a trap, Abaddon watches him turn and swing to gut another demon--the only two still alive are now trying harder to flee than to regroup; too bad about the containment wards she and Dean painted on the warehouse doors to keep everybody inside in their meatsuits--and runs her tongue over her bottom lip. When pulling the Blade free from the falling body sends a fresh spray of red spattering across Dean's chest and onto his face, she replaces her tongue with her teeth, digs them in 'til it hurts. Shifts her shoulders to feel the scrape of the bricks at her back through her t-shirt.

Between her legs, inside her unzipped jeans, her hand moves lazily, rubbing at her clit, sliding her long fingers into the hot slick of her cunt. Dean's little snuff show has her soaked.

He's _gorgeous_.

The last of Crowley's minions trips over his own feet and then tries, with hilarious desperation, to scoot away from Dean backwards on his ass. Dean stalks him, broad-shouldered and straight-backed; Abaddon's eye catches on the flex of his forearm as he squeezes the handle of the Blade, and her breath and her hips hitch. "That's it, lover," she murmurs, and Dean's head turns, just a little, just enough for her to see the sharp corner of his grin.

Another bunch of muscle; another powerful, arcing swing; another cut-off scream and cut-through body. Dean stands tall at the centre of a sprawling mess of meat, bloodstained and strong, and Abaddon's hand isn't lazy anymore.

He turns to her--black-eyed and smiling, grisly to his elbows, _obscene_ \--and Abaddon shudders and clenches around her fingers. She must be a pretty picture, too, she thinks, at the look on his face as he takes her in. She left the executions to him; her clothes are clean, unstained, and she doubts she has even a single mussed hair. But she's leaning against the wall with her long legs spread and her full hips canted; her parted lips must be swollen, her red, red lipstick bitten and smeared; and her hand is still working and working between her legs. She tilts her head back against the wall and looks at Dean through her lashes, arousal a hot, curling lick under her skin.

He stares at her, his inky eyes depthless. His casual grip on the Blade tightens.

By the time he reaches her, the fly of his own jeans is undone; he tugs Abaddon's down past her knees before pushing in close. She gets her hand around his cock--he's so hard, always is after using the Blade, drooling wetness from the tip--and helps fit him to her cunt as he hooks his bloody hands under her thighs and lifts her. The Blade is still in his hand; Abaddon feels the flat of it under her ass, sticky with gore, as Dean shoves himself into her and pins her to the wall. She gets her knees around his hips and her shoulders braced, and then the force of his thrusts takes her weight, and they're fucking.

It's glorious. Hard and vicious, just like the slaughter.

"Liked what you saw, your majesty?" Dean's voice is rough, breathy; as always, he says the honorific with a hint of mockery. His black eyes gleam, watching her half-lidded.

"Oh, sugar, I always like looking at you." Abaddon rakes one hand into his hair, claws the other on his shoulder. Pulling him down, she licks a broad stripe over his jaw and tastes blood and sweat, feels the prickle of his stubble. Curves a smile against his skin. "Wanna see what I see?"

Her hand fists in his hair; she yanks his head back. Startled, Dean blinks the black out of his eyes, but Abaddon's already breathing a smoky tendril of herself past his slack lips, shotgunning herself deep inside him. She watches--and feels--herself swirl like oil through his green.

Usually, this is a one-way trick, a way for Abaddon to get into other people's heads and take what she wants: memories, thoughts, control. It certainly has its charms during sex; all at once she's riding Dean's cock, feeling the push and drag of him hard and thick inside her, and also fucking Dean's cock into her own body, feeling the sweet, slick clutch of herself around him. It doesn't have to be all one-way, though, and Abaddon breathes another cloudy wisp of will into Dean's mouth, this time with the intent to give. She feels his jolt of shock when the dual awareness hits him, then a livewire current of eagerness and arousal. They both moan, low and heated. Their bodies stutter inside-around-against each other.

But that's not Abaddon's purpose; not the whole of it, anyway. While one shred of herself inside Dean curls hungrily into his memories of butchering Crowley's minions (brutal twinned power of the Blade and the Mark singing through his nerves _blood fight hurt maim kill_ it's like sex inside sex inside _sex_ ), the second shows him her own memories of watching him: the elegant shapes of his body, his every move informed with deadly purpose as he swung and struck and killed; the carnage he made, the cleaved bodies of his attackers, the spill of their gore; how the sight of him, his strength and his skill and his hellish, hellish mess, made her hum, made her thrill, made her want.

"Look at you, Dean," she murmurs, rapt. The black smoke connecting them wafts gently between their mouths. "You're beautiful."

His inkstained eyes widen. "Fuck," he chokes out, and his eyes slam shut, and he jerks roughly into her once, twice more. "Oh--oh fuck--" And he comes, his cock twitching inside her, her praise twisting inside him, a winding knot of pleasure and shame, pride and abasement. With a triumphant cry, Abaddon follows his climax to her own, arches off the wall and rides Dean's cock through the hot wet rush, her fingernails cutting red crescents into the cords of his neck, her hips rocking down on his in hard little pushes.

She kisses him harshly when she's done, sucking at his tongue, breathing in the heavy scents of sex and blood and death between them. When she pulls back from the kiss, she pulls herself out of him, swallowing the questing shreds of herself back into her core. She keeps her knees clutched around his waist, holding him tightly to her. "I meant it, love," she tells him, breathless but firm, because she knows how he doubts himself, even now. She knows what he still thinks of what the Mark's made of him.

He still has the Blade in his hand. A growing awareness of pain near its jawbone pressure on the underside of her thigh makes her think that, somewhere in all the excitement, she got cut.

Abaddon sighs happily. "You're a thing of beauty."

To her delight, Dean blushes.


End file.
